


Cooking Lessons

by MissCrazyWriter321



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Anti Carol Preston, Bunker Fic, Canon Compliant, Christmas Isn't Canon, Cooking, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Referenced Childhood Neglect, These tags are a mess because this is 3k of emotions about cooking lessons, romantic undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22187503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321
Summary: He’s in his element, she thinks, and briefly, she wonders how different his life might have been if he’d been a teacher instead of a soldier. He certainly has the heart for it.
Relationships: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston
Comments: 13
Kudos: 92





	Cooking Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! I don't honestly know where this one came from. I wanted to write about Flynn teaching Lucy to cook, and my brain went, "Hey, why don't we add pain?" 
> 
> This was supposed to be fluff. Fluff, I tell you!!! (Standard disclaimers apply.)

“I want you to teach me how to cook.” 

Even saying the words is enough the make her throat tighten, to send spirals of panic through her veins, and she very nearly takes them back. But she has not come this far, has not gathered up the courage to come to him, only to turn and run. So she squares her shoulders and waits. 

He raises an eyebrow, watching her far too carefully. “Cook what, exactly?” 

“Anything. I can't-” She clears her throat, forcing the confession out. “I can't cook.” At the startled expression he can't quite hide, she hurries to explain. “I mean, obviously, I can cook. It just isn't really… Edible. For anyone but me.” 

This he accepts, nodding slowly. “As long as you like it-” 

“I didn't say that.” She silently pleads with him not to push. “I said I can eat it. When I have to. Normally, I just get takeout, or…” Even now, the name sends a pulse of pain through her. “Amy cooked a lot.” 

He frowns, clearly sensing that there's more to the story, and her cheeks heat wildly. This is ridiculous. She sounds like a little child. What kind of grown woman can't cook? It's her own fault, she knows that, and- _ no.  _ No, it's not her fault. That's why she's here, asking him for help. She forces herself to breathe, telling herself that isn't judgement in his eyes (Because it couldn't be. Not from him. Never).

“Alright,” he says finally, and the air rushes back into her lungs. “On one condition.” 

She has a sneaking suspicion of what his condition will be, and it's enough to counteract the relief of his agreement. “Oh?” Her voice is almost even.

His eyes are imploring. “Will you tell me?” He doesn't have to specify what he means, and the room suddenly seems too small. She swallows hard, trying to pull together the words to explain what happened, what she went through, why she never learned such a basic skill. He holds up a hand, shaking his head. “Not right now,” he clarifies. “Just… Sometime. When you're ready.” 

Oh, she could hug him right now. Almost does, in fact; her fingers twitch by her sides. “Yeah,” she promises easily. “I'll tell you. Sometime.” 

He smiles warmly. “Thank you.” Clapping his hands together, clearing away the tension, he stands. “Do you want to start now, or…?” 

“No.” Originally, that had been her plan, but now, she just needs to remember how to breathe normally. “Tomorrow. You're making breakfast, right? Just… Teach me.” 

“Of course.” 

With this, she turns to go. His voice stops her, gentle and shy.

“We, ah… Haven't done a movie night in awhile. If you want.” 

Suddenly, she can think of nothing she would like more.

-

_ Flames everywhere. _

_ Her fault. _

_ Stupid Lucy. She should have listened. Shouldn't have- _

_ All her fault.  _

_ Coughing. _

_ Crying. _

_ Screaming. _

_ So much smoke. So much… _

_ - _

She wakes with a gasp, tears running down her face, still feeling the desperate tug to run, to escape, to get away.

It's almost enough to make her hide under the covers, tell Flynn she's ill, and give up this whole idea. 

Almost. 

But this is too important. She needs this, and besides, she’s not about to give up now. Not when Flynn knows this matters to her. Not when he would study her too closely, eyes soft and sad, if she chose to walk away. Not with disappointment, but it would still ache. 

Not that she's doing this for Flynn. She isn't. But she knows herself well enough to give herself some incentive. 

Speaking of incentive, she thinks, forcing her mind from flames and panic to the man no doubt waiting for her in the kitchen. At the very least, she'll have a nice view. For a few moments, she lets her mind dwell on him: The warmth of his eyes, the gentleness of his hands, and the ferocity with which he protects her. Then, she forces herself out of bed, stopping briefly at the locker room to wash her face. It doesn't quite hide the redness of her eyes, but at least her cheeks are almost a normal color. 

He lights up when he sees her, of course; he always does. It steadies her a little, in spite of herself. 

“What are we making?” She leans back against the counter beside him, and he grabs a spoon, tapping her with it.

“Scrambled eggs. Figured that was a good start.” 

Of course. He could have chosen pancakes, or bacon, or hash-browns… He could have chosen anything else. But somehow, he has managed to-

“Lucy?” His voice is a million miles away, gentle and concerned, and she pulls herself back into the moment. She is a grown adult. She can do this. It's kind of appropriate, in a way.

“Where do we start?” 

He's still watching her worriedly, a hand extended toward her, not quite brave enough to touch. “If you'd prefer-”

“No.” She will not run away from this. “That's perfect.” 

As always, he trusts her to know her limits. He nods once, and gestures to the cabinet closest to her. “First, we need a pan and some cooking spray.” 

Pan. Cooking spray. Easy enough. The former, she finds in the cabinet-"Is this one okay?”-and the latter in the back of the pantry. At his instruction, she sprays the pan, sets it on the stove, and cuts it on.

Instantly, the room fills with smoke. It's everywhere: Her eyes, her lungs, her mouth. She cannot breathe, cannot see, cannot think; there’s no way out. She's done it again, and now they're all dead, and it's all her fault. She never should have tried this, never should have been so selfish-

“Lucy?” 

She blinks, and the smoke fades. There is no fire. No danger. No heat. The only thing close to warmth in the icy bunker is the hand resting tentatively against her arm. Flynn's eyes are dark, full of concern, searching hers with urgency. It's enough to draw her back to earth, pushing the last traces of her walking nightmare away. She breathes in and out, and she is steady, steady, steady. 

“I'm okay.” She reaches across herself, squeezing his hand still on her. 

He does not seem entirely convinced, not that she can blame him. “If we need to stop,” he tries, but she does not let him finish.

“No.” His hair is getting a little too long, hanging in his eyes, and she cannot help herself. His face when she pushes it back is almost too much to bear. “I'm okay,” she repeats, a little more honestly. “What's next?” 

He hesitates a moment longer, then nods. “Next… We need eggs.” 

“Right.” She tries for a teasing smile. “Hard to make scrambled eggs without eggs.”

It's a weak joke at best, but his eyes flicker in amusement, and some of the tension drains from him. “Exactly. Do you know how to crack them?” 

A lie is on the tip of her tongue, but she forces it down. “Not without getting shells everywhere,” she admits. He chuckles, but not unkindly. 

“Here, let me show you.” He takes an egg in hand, and raps it onto the edge of the counter. Then, he catches the small crack with his thumbs, and pulls. The contents of the egg easily fall into the bowl. “Your turn.” Some of her hesitation must show on her face, because he adds, “If you mess up the first one, it's okay. You'll do better with the second.” Then, with a soft smile- “The first time Iris cracked an egg, it just… Shattered. Egg went everywhere. Got some on the ceiling, somehow. Still no idea how she managed that.” 

There's no pain in his words, but it hits her, all the same.

_ Oh.  _

She should have known, should have thought of it long before now, but of course the last person he taught was Iris.  _ Of course. _ What kind of friend is she, to not even consider something so vital? 

When she steals a glance at him, his expression is a little startled, as if he’s just now realizing that he said Iris's name aloud. However, it quickly levels out, and he smiles. Soft. Reassuring. “It's alright, Lucy. I can… Talk about her.” He seems a little surprised by the fact himself, but not unpleasantly so. 

A protest is on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it. Trust has to go both ways, after all. He knows his own limits as well as she knows hers. “I like hearing about her,” she says instead, picking up an egg. 

Just a flick of the wrist, right? That’s all it takes.

She raises the egg, taps it on the counter’s edge… And nothing happens. 

“A little more force,” he murmurs, and she takes a moment to wonder when he got so close before obeying. 

_ Crack!  _

A tiny bit slips out, landing on the floor with a plop, but she manages to get the rest into the bowl. “I did it!” 

“You did.” His quiet pride is evident, and she does not dare to look back at his face.

The rest of the eggs crack mostly without incident, save for the one that shatters all over her hands. All things considered, she thinks that’s a win. She washes her hands, then turns to him and waits.

“Now you need some salt.” 

He’s in his element, she thinks, and briefly, she wonders how different his life might have been if he’d been a teacher instead of a soldier. He certainly has the heart for it. 

She could have met him earlier. Or perhaps she wouldn’t have met him at all.  Either way, he’s here now, and she couldn’t be more grateful.

“How much?” 

He hums. “Pour a little in your hand. I’ll tell you when to stop.” 

She does, and true to his word, he stops her a few seconds later. 

“That looks good.” 

She doesn’t move quite fast enough, and a little extra spills into the pile. “Oops.”

With a chuckle and a shake of his head, he gestures for her to add it to the eggs. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. This isn’t an exact science, Lucy.” He actually winks, the dork. “It’s an art.”

“I didn’t do so well in art class,” she feels obligated to point out, even as she opens her hand over the bowl. 

He gives her an amused look. “Luckily you’re not being graded. Now then, you need to mix it up.” He hands her a fork, and she stirs. 

After a minute, he holds up a hand. “That looks good. Now, we need to find out if the pan is hot enough.” He pauses, glancing at her in silent question, and she shakes her head. No, she has no idea how to do that, either. He nods. “Get some water on your hand. Doesn’t have to be a lot. A few drops should do the trick. Then, just flick it into the pan.” 

The cool water feels good on her skin, and she lingers for a few seconds before cutting it off. With a wave of her hand, a few droplets fall into the pan. Where they touch, an angry sizzling noise emerges, and she feels herself tensing up once more. A familiar hand settling on the small of her back grounds her, and she focuses on his touch like the lifeline it’s meant to be. 

“That’s a good sign,” he says, far too casual for someone barely holding her back from a panic attack. “Means it’s ready. Just pour the eggs in.”

She does, hands shaking, and he hands her a spatula. 

“To keep them from sticking,” he explains. “Keep moving them around, scraping them off the bottom of the pan.”

It’s still sizzling, and she knows the noise is probably normal, but it seems like it’s going to burst into flames at any moment, and she has to ask. “How long before it’s ready?”

“Not too long,” he promises, but the lack of a time-frame is less than reassuring. “When it gets closer, I’ll tell you what to look for.” 

He draws back a little, and she knows instinctively that he is trying to give her space so that she doesn’t feel like he’s hovering. It’s the last thing she wants, but she does not know how to tell him that, so she focuses on the eggs. 

In spite of her hesitation, they never do burn, and after a few minutes, Flynn clears his throat. “See if they’re still stringy. If you try to pull them apart, are there still strings connecting them?”

She pushes at them a bit with her spatula, before shaking her head. “I don’t think so.” 

“Perfect. Let me…” He trails off, and she glances back to see him rummaging through the cabinets, emerging with a large plate. “I should have had this ready,” he says, a bit apologetically. “Here.” 

She transfers the eggs to the plate, and can’t quite stifle a grin. They do look amazing. She did it! 

Flynn gives her a fond grin of his own, and holds up a fork. “May I?” 

It’s irrational for her to feel nervous, but she cannot help herself as she nods. 

He fills his fork, takes a bite, and positively beams. “Delicious,” he announces, setting the plate on the counter. 

Warmth rushes over her, and she doesn’t quite break into dancing, but it’s a close thing. She did it. The monster is destroyed. If she can learn to make scrambled eggs, she can cook anything.

“Of course,” he points out, holding out the fork, “What really matters is whether or not you like it.” 

She hesitates before reaching out to take it. There are other forks, after all, and while she’s used to sharing with Amy or Jiya, this is different. Flynn isn’t Amy or Jiya, after all. On the other hand, if she can face her fear of cooking, maybe she can face her fear of this. 

Much to her dismay, the eggs aren’t perfect. They’re over-salted, and for a terrible second, she thinks she might cry. But as the team files in, filling their plates, they have nothing but good things to say. 

_ Maybe, _ she tells herself, _ they don’t have to be perfect. _

-

It takes her a week to find the courage to talk about it. 

They’re curled up on the couch, flipping through movies, trying to decide what to watch. He hasn’t once questioned her, but she can see in his eyes that he wants to. He wants to know her. She knows this, and the thought isn’t as terrifying as it once was. 

“Desperate Housewives?” He suggests, and she frowns. 

They’ve watched it all the way through once already, and besides… “You hate that show.” 

He shrugs sheepishly. “You love it.” 

It’s that simple. For him, it’s that simple. Suddenly, she doesn’t feel so afraid anymore.

“My mother never got drunk.”

He pauses, hand on the remote, and frowns at her. “Sorry?” 

She should probably back up and explain what she’s talking about, but she trusts him to catch up. If she wants any hope of finishing this before her courage lags, she has to keep moving forward. 

“Sometimes, she’d have a glass of wine with dinner, but she never had enough to get drunk. Couldn’t risk her precious reputation, you know?” A hint of bitterness makes its way into her voice, and she doesn’t bother to hide it. “But when I was ten… I made an F in a class.” It feels silly to say with such weight, but she tells herself that’s on her mother. Not on her.

He still seems a little confused, but he holds out a hand for her to take if she chooses. Instead, she bypasses his hand completely, snuggling into his chest. Without hesitation, he lowers his arm, wrapping it around her. 

“She was so angry. It was the first time I made less than an A, ever. And it was stupid, because I knew the stuff. I studied for it.” She forces herself to stop and take in a breath, exhaling her anger. That was a lifetime ago, and her little ten year old self did nothing wrong. “She had too much to drink, and went to… Sleep it off. And I don’t know if she forgot, or if it was supposed to be punishment, but…” 

There’s a slight pressure on the top of her head, and she blinks. She is not quite sure if he’s kissing her, or simply resting his head against her. Either way, she decides, she does not mind. 

“She didn’t feed us.”

He draws in a sharp breath, and she feels it against her scalp. His hand moves over her back, tracing circles there. 

“I just wanted to help.” In spite of herself, her voice wavers. “I thought if I fed me and Amy, she’d be proud of me again.” She clutches his shirt a little too tightly, but he doesn’t pull away. “I don’t know how I did it. All I know is, there was so much smoke-” 

For a moment, she's right back in that moment with flames all around her, sure she's going to die. Only Flynn's solid presence holding her close grounds her. 

"Anyway," she adds when she can breathe again, "Mom never let me cook after that. I mean, at first, it made sense. Amy and I could have died, you know? But suddenly I was eighteen. Amy was cooking, and my mother was still…” She can still hear her voice, tight and mocking. “ _ ‘Think about what happened last time, Lucy. Do you really want to try it?’ _ ” 

He’s quiet for a long second, processing, but he never lets her go. “Did you ever try to learn without telling her?”

“Amy offered to teach me, but Mom was always around, and I didn’t…” Her gaze drops to a wrinkle on his shirt. “I didn’t trust anyone else.”

He swallows, pulling her even closer (an impressive feat, in her opinion). “Thank you,” he breathes. “For telling me.” 

Realizing that he’s the person she trusts most has been a strange journey, but now it's second-nature for her. “Thank  _ you, _ ” she insists. 

She’s more than happy to stay here until she falls asleep, but suddenly, he gives her a gentle push, silently instructing her to sit up. Curious, she does. His hand is warm and solid when he cups her cheek.

“You know that wasn’t your fault, right?” There’s such certainty in his tone that she doesn’t dare argue. “You were just a kid.”

Honestly, part of her still blames herself. She was young, but old enough to know better, after all. (Wasn’t she? It’s hard to remember clearly, but still, she must have known, she should have gotten an adult-)

“I know.” It’s the truth. Even if she does not always feel it, she knows that her mother was at fault. “I just needed… Help.” 

Tracing a thumb over her cheek, he smiles. “I’m glad I could help,” he says easily. Then, with a spark of mischief in his eyes- “Have I earned the right to annoy Wyatt tonight?”

She cannot help but laugh, even as she playfully smacks his shoulder. “Nope.” 

“Why not?” Is he actually pouting?  _ Dork.  _

She snuggles back into his arms, and he immediately draws her close once more. “Because,” she enunciates, “you aren’t moving tonight. We’re staying here.”

“Oh, are we?” His voice is half teasing, half hopeful, and she smiles in return.

“Yup!”

And so they do. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!!!


End file.
